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Sunday, September 17, 2006

PEJ News - C. L. Cook - For Canadians concerned their country is falling into the militarist trap set by George W. Bush and his industrious friends of carnage and hopeless disaster there is no better example of the truth of this catastrophic fate than State news organ mouthpiece, Rex Murphy and his recent blitzkrieg against the legion anti-Bush administration agitators in Canada he would have "us" regard as "conspiracy mongers," and a collective "vicious instrument of defamation and hate."

What, humble subject of He the Opinionator Imperiumus, you may wonder has worked its way so far up Rex's royal rectal cavity as to make His eminence emanate so odoriferously against the majority belief that the George W. Bush wars are not what they appear, and indeed are the product of a conspiracy most foul?

Well you may wonder.

For those blessedly ignorant of Canada's answer to the collective idiocy filling the airwaves of America, Rex Murphy is employed by State propaganda organ, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, his CBC salary drawn from the monies extracted necessarily, on pain of incarceration, or worse, from the hides of the collective herd, known officially as the Canadian subjects of Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth II, Regina, Empress of the Realm, Defender of the Faith, etc., etc. His nibs' blathering may also be gleaned between the pages of Canada's "National Newspaper," The Globe and Mail.

September 11, 2006: Following years of bloody retribution, wars of aggression, and uncounted acts of wanton carnage meted out upon the heads of the peons and peasants of distant Afghanistan, and Iraq, and Lebanon, and Palestine, and Yemen, and Somalia, and the vicious assaults ladled out to the undocumented thousands taken prisoner and tortured in prisons and hidey spider-holes around the world, and after the evisceration of a thousand years of western jurisprudence, and the promise of more abuse and tyranny to come, Rex sits before his keyboard, searching his soul for an outrage, seeking a muse to aid his pen, and fuel his commentary, to be carried, via the State organ, direct to the nation.

And what, after years of wanton carnage, vicious assaults, and the dying throes of democracy does Rex hit out against? Why it's those whose minds would harbour “pernicious concoctions" that suggest: "a sitting president and his advisors would murder their own [sic] citizenry." To these vile cretins, Rex suggests they be a "calumny, as lunatic as they are contemptible."

Tyrannical Thesaurus Rex goes on, flailing his broad brush, thus: “The overarching theory is that Bush and the neo-Cons, not bin Laden, not al-Qaeda, not Mohammed Atta and his virgin-hungry suicide team, but slow-witted George and his puppet masters, that they are the real villains, that the president and his plotters murdered 3,000 of their own citizens. I do not know why we give any oxygen to these extraordinary libels. Detestation for George Bush may qualify a person for many things, but it is not a degree of metallurgy, just as anti-Americanism is not a branch of physics.”

And there you have the crux of Rex’s pointed criticism; those intended for his skewering barb: Sceptics of the official story, yes; but more specifically Rex would destroy the “anti-Americanismists.”

Like to the old gobstopper, “Anti-Semite,” serving to silence critics of kills-better-than-cancer Israel these many years, Rex would elevate America, and presumably its blasphemous “leaders,” to a religion, and its critics heretics of the lowest order: Anti-American.

But Rex, there’s something you’ve missed.

“Slow-witted George and his puppet masters” have plotted against “their own” [sic] citizens, resulting in the wrongful deaths of more than 3,000 of them. And dear Rex, those same have caused the villainous destruction of more than a quarter of a million others, mainly civilians, in Iraq and Afghanistan. These are not “extraordinary libels” Rex, these are facts. The war in Iraq, and Afghanistan, to which you repeatedly defend Canada’s murderous participation, were all formed on the basis of conspiracy theories cooked up in Washington, D.C. The story fed the people, via useful idiots like you in the press, are a proven pack of lies. Yet, you and your sick ilk spend your precious talents, and the nation’s airwaves defending those lies, and the liars, while the killing continues.

To paraphrase you, Rex, I do not know why “we” give oxygen to Rex Murphy’s lies and propaganda.

Wearing his other hat, that of columnist for the free-market Globe and Mail, today (Our Blessed Tomorrows: Saturday, September 16, ’06 A17) Murphy opines on the shootings this week in Montreal, saying: “It was a horrible business.” Thanks for that, Rex. But, there’s more; Rex goes on to say, whining about the extensive media coverage this outrage has received; “There is another reason also - a more general one - why it has occupied the front pages, a reason which, even in the gloom of this terrible event, Canadians should be mindful of. That is because acts of wanton carnage - and may it always be so - are so exceptional, literally so extraordinary, in our country.”

Again, Rex proves over-selective in his definition of “wanton acts of carnage.”

Choosing to reiterate his support of the massive defilement of humanity carried on daily in Canada’s name in Afghanistan, Murphy blesses the war-makers in Ottawa and Washington, London and Canberra, explaining that it is perhaps to bring to long-suffering Afghanistan the kind of “blessed ordinariness” of the peaceful life enjoyed in Canada, where people just don’t get mowed down randomly every day, that sustains Canada’s [sic] “Mission” there.

This past week, the Associated Press reported Canadian soldiers have killed an estimated 500 Afghanis. I don’t know where they got that number, but it is clear: Canada [sic] wantonly kills, maims, and destroys humanity every day it stays in Afghanistan. Something not seen by Rex as an aberration to the green and peaceful life enjoyed in Canada; au contraire.

In Rex-speak, the routine killing of men, women, and children over there serves humanity thusly: “[T]his ability to say “tomorrow” uninflected with the deepest reflexes of anxiety and fear, is probably what is, at core, the business of our [sic] mission in the decades-long tormented country of Afghanistan – to extend to others at least the possibility of a passage to civil tranquility.”

Yes Rex, a passage to the hereafter bought and paid for by you and me and every Canadian; a destruction of the villages wrought that the villages may live more peaceful, empty of their noisome, and ignorant inhabitants.

Were we here only to act the same.

Chris Cook is a contributing editor to PEJ News and hosts Gorilla Radio, a weekly public affairs program, broad/webcast from the University of Victoria, Canada. You can check out the GR blog here.

For some people, any official explanation of an event is always and only a synonym for a cover-up.

For such types, reality is a labyrinth of shadows and speculation, nothing is ever as it seems.

One plus one always equals something other than two, and there is no such thing as a straight line from "A" to "B".

They live in a world of spies and schemers, of aliens who are never seen, corporate forces who manipulate whole countries, governments who plot and kill their own citizens, and where Zionists or Freemasons, the Templar Knights or Opus Dei, have been running the planet for ages.

This is the mentality that argues Roosevelt staged Pearl Harbor, that John F. Kennedy had more assassins than the entire cast and extras of "Ben Hur" - it was really crowded on that grassy knoll - and that Princess Diana was most likely done in by members of the royal family; Elizabeth II, the Buckingham Palace Soprano.

On a pop level, this is the world that finds an audience of millions for the lukewarm stew and plastic history of Dan Brown's fatuous Da Vinci Code and has tentacles that reach towards those true believers in the mystic power of New Age crystals, spirit channelling, of people who talk to trees and fully expect the bored trees to talk back to them.

On a much more sinister level, conspiracy mongering is a vicious instrument of defamation and hate.

The hideous granddaddy of all conspiracy theories is also the most durable one: the infamous Protocols of the Elders of Zion, the document that "proved" the most lasting of malicious fantasies, that the Jews run the world and seek its ruin. The Protocols are loopier than a bucket of eels on a Ferris wheel and known to be a hoax for over a century, but of malicious gullibility there is no end. 9/11 has spewed conspiracy theories almost from the moment the first plane hit the first tower. Among the earliest and the most despicable - an echo of the Protocols here - was that 4,000 Jewish employees stayed home that day. In other words, the Jews did it.

Lately, there has been a whole whirlwind of broken logic and wishful thinking, malice and misinformation trying desperately to dress up as truth.

One of my personal favourites is the claim that no planes at all were involved in 9/11, that those were missiles wrapped in holograms that slammed into the buildings. Hand me a pointy ear, Spock, someone's been watching far too much Star Trek.

The overarching theory is that Bush and the neo-Cons, not bin Laden, not al-Qaeda, not Mohammed Atta and his virgin-hungry suicide team, but slow-witted George and his puppet masters, that they are the real villains, that the president and his plotters murdered 3,000 of their own citizens.

I do not know why we give any oxygen to these extraordinary libels. Detestation for George Bush may qualify a person for many things, but it is not a degree of metallurgy, just as anti-Americanism is not a branch of physics.

These theories that suggest a sitting president and his advisors would murder their own citizenry are a calumny, as lunatic as they are contemptible. They come from the imagination of hate, the pernicious concoctions of minds allergic to reality, and are beneath the dignity of reasoning human beings. For "The National", I'm Rex Murphy.

Counterpunch~ Eliza Ernshire ~The people of Nablus are welcoming of a stranger into their streets. It is not so common for them to see foreigners there and many stop you to ask what you are doing in Nablus and how you see their city. It is a hard question to answer; you want to tell them about the beauty of the ancient stoned city and its unique geography, nestled in the valley of two imposing mountains, daring the northern slopes of one to build almost to its peak; but you can not, because this is not the feature that strikes you most noticeably as you enter the outskirts of Nablus.

While war raged in Lebanon throughout the month of July and death was a daily occurrence in Gaza, other regions in this war-torn part of the world also experienced weeks of torment and torture at the hands of the Israeli Military.

Among these regions is Nablus. A city filled with tragedy and the knowledge of how unjust and unforgiving the occupational forces can be. Invasions, incursions and curfews are not new to the people of Nablus, nor are the sights of bleeding children and mourning families.

Many people say if you want to know the Occupation of the West Bank and what it actually entails then you must go to Nablus and spend some days wandering in the Old City and surrounding districts talking to residents, nearly every one of whom have lost members of their family in the decade-long struggle against Occupation; you need to talk to the students of An Najar University and listen to their stories of suffering and how many difficulties they must overcome if they want to continue their education; you must let the sorrow of the city soak into your unconsciousness.

And so I went to Nablus and wandered the Old City streets and talked with families and with students and listened to their stories.

It was not the first time I had visited the city, but the first time I had spent more than a day there.

The people of Nablus are welcoming of a stranger into their streets. It is not so common for them to see foreigners there and many stop you to ask what you are doing in Nablus and how you see their city. It is a hard question to answer; you want to tell them about the beauty of the ancient stoned city and its unique geography, nestled in the valley of two imposing mountains, daring the northern slopes of one to build almost to its peak; but you can not, because this is not the feature that strikes you most noticeably as you enter the outskirts of Nablus.

You are first struck by the ruins of the Municipality building and the destruction of the as-yet un-rebuilt Mucata. You are struck by the houses, windowless and scarred with bullet holes that line every street you walk down; you are struck by the overwhelming feeling that this city has seen war again and again and has had no time of respite to begin to rebuild.And how can you tell the eager residents of Nablus that all you see in their city is the ravaging signs of war and hardship and the heartbreaking signs of children with no future?

The latest of these fierce and deathly times has left numerous residents of Nablus dead and many more wounded.

It began in June when the Israeli army invaded the center of Nablus at midday. They came in twenty jeeps to arrest one man. On that day they shot three people dead and imposed a curfew on the whole of the city.Since then they have been in the city every night and sometimes during the day.

They have killed civilians including two children 14 and 16 years old. They have totally demolished the Mucata and have bulldozed an apartment block that housed 9 families. They have invaded the refugee camps and have carried out assassinations against militants whose posters now cover the walls of every shop in the city.June, July August and September 2006

The streets now empty at 9 pm and the only sounds in the night time are those of gun-fire and explosions.

'This is Nablus.' My taxi driver said. This is the prison of the West Bank.

I was to speak with Fadi, a leader of the Al Aqsa Brigades in Nablus. A friend from Nablus had talked to Fadi and Fadi had agreed to speak with me on Saturday about his life and his resistance against the occupation.

But he is now dead.

I arrived in Nablus the day after he was assassinated by Israeli Special Forces.

The city salutes him and every shop displays his poster, prepared by himself for himself. He stands one-armed and defiant. He lost his right arm in the struggle a year ago.

I came too late to speak with him. So instead of his story I will write of him, as told me by his family, his friends and his city that is now mourning his death.

Ahmad is a medical relief worker and has worked as an ambulance doctor for three years. I met him by chance in a youth project office in the center of Nablus.

I asked him about the last month in the city and he shook his head and said it has been a 'hell-of-a-time'. He has been evacuating wounded and dead people almost daily, the most heartbreaking of these he said was having to try and evacuate Fadi after he had been fatally injured.

It was late at night in the old city of Nablus.

Fadi was warned not to enter the old city, but he did and was shot by snipers.

He had a massive hole through his belly.Ahmad told me how he tried to stop the bleeding by pressing two pillows against each side of Fadi's body, but it was impossible to stop the bleeding and he and his two helpers were being shot at the whole time and the ambulance could not approach. His two friends were wounded.

'Fadi was still alive. But he couldn't speak. He just looked at us and pointed. I suppose he was telling us that he was going'

I asked Ahmad if he knew Fadi. He answered, yes, that he did and it was not the first time he had tried to evacuate him after an Israeli attack.

'Once he had his whole insides hanging out of a horrible hole in his stomach and I had to push them back inside and he said ''thankyou Ahmad!'' and there was the time when he had his arm blown off.

'But this time was a nightmare. We were trying to drag him through the street and we were right in the sights of ten or so snipers sitting on the rooftops. I could see red laser beams all over my chest. I finally had to turn and run for cover and that is not an easy thing to do when you are a trained emergency worker.After half an hour we managed to drag Fadi to a building, but by the time we reached the hospital he was already half-an-hour dead.

He was a good man. Ask anyone here.

'Every one knew him and every one loved him.'

When evening came I wound my way up the mountain to a quiet sanctuary, surprising in such a battle-wearied city. The sanctuary is in the garden of an old woman who has been trained as a psychologist and spends her days working with the women of Nablus. Too often the bearers of tragedy.

'The women must carry too much.' She said. 'Sometimes all their frustration and fear and torture come out of their hearts when they sit here in my small garden.'

We talked for hours and I never thought I could hear so many stories at once that would bring tears to my eyes.

'.Can you imagine?' she said, late in the evening. 'That women come to me and talk and begin to cry and then to shout and then to beat the earth with their bear fists. Can you imagine what that is like?

When the mothers tell me about their sons taken from them. Killed in front of them, or arrested from their family home. Some mothers tell me that their fourteen or fifteen year old sons rush to them when the army arrives in their street and cry to them to hide them. Some say that their sons ask to be put back inside their bellies because they would be safe there.Can you imagine this? Fifteen year old boys! And the world hears of them only as terrorists.'

One mother came to the sanctuary and for an hour sat on the stones and howled till her heart would break: 'I could not hide him! I could not hide my son!' She cried over and over again.

To us, arrest may not seem like the end of hope, but we do not know the reality of the arrest system in Palestine. The women of Nablus know.

They know that they will not hear news of their son for maybe 21 days after his arrest. They will not know if he is alive or dead. All they will know is that he will be facing interrogation and torture alone. That his court hearing will be held in Hebrew. That his charges will be kept in a 'secret file' and that they might not see their sons again until they are grown men. This they know.

'One young woman is married to a wanted man. She comes to me because she has become useless. She can not sleep in the night and can not wake in the day. She lies in her bed because she is paralyzed with fear.She has two daughters. The eldest started school today. Four days ago the young woman's husband visited her with three new dresses for their daughter. The husband said he did not want anyone else to have to prepare his daughter for her first day at school. Later in the evening he sat with his young family and listened to his youngest girl singing a song he had taught her. He said to his wife quietly, 'I don't think I will hear this song again.' He was killed yesterday.

I knew then it was Fadi the old woman was telling me about. She stopped talking because she too was crying.

'I loved him like a son' she finally said; 'and his wife like a daughter.'

She wept because however strong she is and however many tragedies she bares with her clients, she too sometimes needs to weep.

It was hard to sleep that night. I sat at the window and watched the sleeping city below me, wondering how many homes were nursing broken families and broken hearts.

I could see the ruined outlines of homes that had been bulldozed and could see the pile of rubble that had been the Mucata, razed to the ground three weeks before.

I realized that it would take months to hear the stories this city harbors, months before I could appreciate the depths of despair the people are driven to by the harshness of the occupation.

I wondered what future was in store for all the children I had seen that day rummaging through rubbish in the Old City because there is not even a school for them to go to. I found myself wondering at the little twelve year old boys I had seen running after the militants who roam the old city with guns slung over their shoulders, looking to them like they ought to be looking to their teachers.

I found myself asking the question if it was so very surprising that these youngsters turned to the military factions of the city and joined them, and by so doing, giving up any hope of a future except that of imprisonment or death at the hands of the Israeli forces.

Because that could well be their future anywayI finally slept as the dawn call to prayer sounded over the city.

When I returned to Ramallah I knew that it was true about Nablus.

If you wander the streets of the Old City and listen to even a few of the tales that are imprisoned within it, you will understand better the reality of this occupation, and the sadness of the city will seep into your unconscious

'But beware of becoming hopeless.even the women who cry in my garden grow strong again and return to their homes and continue to attend to their daily work. If they didn't do this Israel would have destroyed us long ago.'

Counterpunch~ Eliza Ernshire ~The people of Nablus are welcoming of a stranger into their streets. It is not so common for them to see foreigners there and many stop you to ask what you are doing in Nablus and how you see their city. It is a hard question to answer; you want to tell them about the beauty of the ancient stoned city and its unique geography, nestled in the valley of two imposing mountains, daring the northern slopes of one to build almost to its peak; but you can not, because this is not the feature that strikes you most noticeably as you enter the outskirts of Nablus.

While war raged in Lebanon throughout the month of July and death was a daily occurrence in Gaza, other regions in this war-torn part of the world also experienced weeks of torment and torture at the hands of the Israeli Military.

Among these regions is Nablus. A city filled with tragedy and the knowledge of how unjust and unforgiving the occupational forces can be. Invasions, incursions and curfews are not new to the people of Nablus, nor are the sights of bleeding children and mourning families.

Many people say if you want to know the Occupation of the West Bank and what it actually entails then you must go to Nablus and spend some days wandering in the Old City and surrounding districts talking to residents, nearly every one of whom have lost members of their family in the decade-long struggle against Occupation; you need to talk to the students of An Najar University and listen to their stories of suffering and how many difficulties they must overcome if they want to continue their education; you must let the sorrow of the city soak into your unconsciousness.

And so I went to Nablus and wandered the Old City streets and talked with families and with students and listened to their stories.

It was not the first time I had visited the city, but the first time I had spent more than a day there.

The people of Nablus are welcoming of a stranger into their streets. It is not so common for them to see foreigners there and many stop you to ask what you are doing in Nablus and how you see their city. It is a hard question to answer; you want to tell them about the beauty of the ancient stoned city and its unique geography, nestled in the valley of two imposing mountains, daring the northern slopes of one to build almost to its peak; but you can not, because this is not the feature that strikes you most noticeably as you enter the outskirts of Nablus.

You are first struck by the ruins of the Municipality building and the destruction of the as-yet un-rebuilt Mucata. You are struck by the houses, windowless and scarred with bullet holes that line every street you walk down; you are struck by the overwhelming feeling that this city has seen war again and again and has had no time of respite to begin to rebuild.And how can you tell the eager residents of Nablus that all you see in their city is the ravaging signs of war and hardship and the heartbreaking signs of children with no future?

The latest of these fierce and deathly times has left numerous residents of Nablus dead and many more wounded.

It began in June when the Israeli army invaded the center of Nablus at midday. They came in twenty jeeps to arrest one man. On that day they shot three people dead and imposed a curfew on the whole of the city.Since then they have been in the city every night and sometimes during the day.

They have killed civilians including two children 14 and 16 years old. They have totally demolished the Mucata and have bulldozed an apartment block that housed 9 families. They have invaded the refugee camps and have carried out assassinations against militants whose posters now cover the walls of every shop in the city.June, July August and September 2006

The streets now empty at 9 pm and the only sounds in the night time are those of gun-fire and explosions.

'This is Nablus.' My taxi driver said. This is the prison of the West Bank.

I was to speak with Fadi, a leader of the Al Aqsa Brigades in Nablus. A friend from Nablus had talked to Fadi and Fadi had agreed to speak with me on Saturday about his life and his resistance against the occupation.

But he is now dead.

I arrived in Nablus the day after he was assassinated by Israeli Special Forces.

The city salutes him and every shop displays his poster, prepared by himself for himself. He stands one-armed and defiant. He lost his right arm in the struggle a year ago.

I came too late to speak with him. So instead of his story I will write of him, as told me by his family, his friends and his city that is now mourning his death.

Ahmad is a medical relief worker and has worked as an ambulance doctor for three years. I met him by chance in a youth project office in the center of Nablus.

I asked him about the last month in the city and he shook his head and said it has been a 'hell-of-a-time'. He has been evacuating wounded and dead people almost daily, the most heartbreaking of these he said was having to try and evacuate Fadi after he had been fatally injured.

It was late at night in the old city of Nablus.

Fadi was warned not to enter the old city, but he did and was shot by snipers.

He had a massive hole through his belly.Ahmad told me how he tried to stop the bleeding by pressing two pillows against each side of Fadi's body, but it was impossible to stop the bleeding and he and his two helpers were being shot at the whole time and the ambulance could not approach. His two friends were wounded.

'Fadi was still alive. But he couldn't speak. He just looked at us and pointed. I suppose he was telling us that he was going'

I asked Ahmad if he knew Fadi. He answered, yes, that he did and it was not the first time he had tried to evacuate him after an Israeli attack.

'Once he had his whole insides hanging out of a horrible hole in his stomach and I had to push them back inside and he said ''thankyou Ahmad!'' and there was the time when he had his arm blown off.

'But this time was a nightmare. We were trying to drag him through the street and we were right in the sights of ten or so snipers sitting on the rooftops. I could see red laser beams all over my chest. I finally had to turn and run for cover and that is not an easy thing to do when you are a trained emergency worker.After half an hour we managed to drag Fadi to a building, but by the time we reached the hospital he was already half-an-hour dead.

He was a good man. Ask anyone here.

'Every one knew him and every one loved him.'

When evening came I wound my way up the mountain to a quiet sanctuary, surprising in such a battle-wearied city. The sanctuary is in the garden of an old woman who has been trained as a psychologist and spends her days working with the women of Nablus. Too often the bearers of tragedy.

'The women must carry too much.' She said. 'Sometimes all their frustration and fear and torture come out of their hearts when they sit here in my small garden.'

We talked for hours and I never thought I could hear so many stories at once that would bring tears to my eyes.

'.Can you imagine?' she said, late in the evening. 'That women come to me and talk and begin to cry and then to shout and then to beat the earth with their bear fists. Can you imagine what that is like?

When the mothers tell me about their sons taken from them. Killed in front of them, or arrested from their family home. Some mothers tell me that their fourteen or fifteen year old sons rush to them when the army arrives in their street and cry to them to hide them. Some say that their sons ask to be put back inside their bellies because they would be safe there.Can you imagine this? Fifteen year old boys! And the world hears of them only as terrorists.'

One mother came to the sanctuary and for an hour sat on the stones and howled till her heart would break: 'I could not hide him! I could not hide my son!' She cried over and over again.

To us, arrest may not seem like the end of hope, but we do not know the reality of the arrest system in Palestine. The women of Nablus know.

They know that they will not hear news of their son for maybe 21 days after his arrest. They will not know if he is alive or dead. All they will know is that he will be facing interrogation and torture alone. That his court hearing will be held in Hebrew. That his charges will be kept in a 'secret file' and that they might not see their sons again until they are grown men. This they know.

'One young woman is married to a wanted man. She comes to me because she has become useless. She can not sleep in the night and can not wake in the day. She lies in her bed because she is paralyzed with fear.She has two daughters. The eldest started school today. Four days ago the young woman's husband visited her with three new dresses for their daughter. The husband said he did not want anyone else to have to prepare his daughter for her first day at school. Later in the evening he sat with his young family and listened to his youngest girl singing a song he had taught her. He said to his wife quietly, 'I don't think I will hear this song again.' He was killed yesterday.

I knew then it was Fadi the old woman was telling me about. She stopped talking because she too was crying.

'I loved him like a son' she finally said; 'and his wife like a daughter.'

She wept because however strong she is and however many tragedies she bares with her clients, she too sometimes needs to weep.

It was hard to sleep that night. I sat at the window and watched the sleeping city below me, wondering how many homes were nursing broken families and broken hearts.

I could see the ruined outlines of homes that had been bulldozed and could see the pile of rubble that had been the Mucata, razed to the ground three weeks before.

I realized that it would take months to hear the stories this city harbors, months before I could appreciate the depths of despair the people are driven to by the harshness of the occupation.

I wondered what future was in store for all the children I had seen that day rummaging through rubbish in the Old City because there is not even a school for them to go to. I found myself wondering at the little twelve year old boys I had seen running after the militants who roam the old city with guns slung over their shoulders, looking to them like they ought to be looking to their teachers.

I found myself asking the question if it was so very surprising that these youngsters turned to the military factions of the city and joined them, and by so doing, giving up any hope of a future except that of imprisonment or death at the hands of the Israeli forces.

Because that could well be their future anywayI finally slept as the dawn call to prayer sounded over the city.

When I returned to Ramallah I knew that it was true about Nablus.

If you wander the streets of the Old City and listen to even a few of the tales that are imprisoned within it, you will understand better the reality of this occupation, and the sadness of the city will seep into your unconscious

'But beware of becoming hopeless.even the women who cry in my garden grow strong again and return to their homes and continue to attend to their daily work. If they didn't do this Israel would have destroyed us long ago.'